


Universal Matters

by ForeverChasingDreams



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Nick Grimshaw/Harry Styles, Sad Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1236490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverChasingDreams/pseuds/ForeverChasingDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's been in love with Louis for years. Now all he's got to do is open his mouth and tell him. <br/>So why is that so difficult?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Universal Matters

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, done purely for my own enjoyment. Please do not let this be brought to the attention of One Direction or anyone linked to them.

The mass of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.

Harry reads this one morning on some forgettable Twitter account and nearly forgets about it. He sits through an interview and smiles and lies, sitting next to Zayn and pretending his heart isn’t trying to leap across the room.

He answers the clichéd questions with the same answers, and wonders why people never seem to notice. Yes, he likes the new album, no, he doesn’t spend hours on his hair, yes, they’re going out tonight in the city, no, he’s not going out with whoever the fuck he’s been linked to now.

Is it strange, he thinks, that telling the truth in an interview is always so easy but telling a lie? That’s the hardest thing. The boys lie – or omit, as Liam assures him – all the time, but Harry doesn’t know how to hide something about himself, has never done so, never felt the need to deny others his true self.

Now he tells the truth with a heavy heart, “no, me and Louis have never kissed,” and thinks that he really would like it to be a lie.

 

Too caught up in his head, they say. He talks slow, thinks long, and loves with every single atom of his body because he doesn’t know how else to be.

“Oh, Harry,” Lou says when she finds out, and she looks immensely saddened. “You always have to make it hard for yourself, don’t you?”

Harry wishes he could yell aloud what he’s thinking. _I didn’t choose this_ , he would tell her. _I didn’t want to love him._

Okay, that’s a lie. Harry had fallen for him the first time they had met, when he, a shy sixteen year old, had crash landed back to Earth and found a loud, obnoxious, confident and charming nineteen year old alien waiting for him – and the scales tipped down down down.

He shrugs at Lou instead. “It’s a crush,” he says, another lie, and he hates himself a little more every time he opens his mouth.

She doesn’t believe him.

 

Zayn is next, beautiful, haughty Zayn with piercing cheekbones and shining eyes, who has a heart of gold and a fierce mind, who fights those who threatens those he loves not with fists or anger but with crystal ice instead.

And he says, “I thought you got over this, Haz,” and Harry wants to tell him that he’ll never ever lose sight of Louis, never let him go from his heart, but smiles through the lie despite himself and answers

“I pretty much have,” as if he’s not talking about the best and worst thing in his life, the one downfall in his frequently bizarre and amazing life.

Zayn doesn’t believe him – or maybe he would have done, if Harry hadn’t let Louis fuck him two days later.

 

Louis’ drunk. They’re in France, somewhere that’s not Paris but the accents are the same and the people yell the same and the signs read the same and Harry lets it all blur before his eyes apart from Louis, who shines bright in the club and clings to Harry with a broken laugh and beautiful eyes and says

“I love your hair,” and Harry feels a little part of him loosen with the compliment whilst the rest seizes up.

“You’re drunk,” Harry tells Louis, instead of asking _do you mean it?_

“That I am, Hazza,” Louis laughs it off, grabbing another beer from the bar and swinging his arms around. He looks mad, crazy, and gorgeous, and Harry thinks that he really, _really,_ has to get out of here-

“I’m going back to the hotel,” he says, his voice an even ice block and Louis looks at him, slightly hurt but inebriated enough to not care.

“I’ll come with you,” the man-child-boy announces, and Harry wants to yell no at him, say that he needs the space, needs to rebuild the walls around his heart that are under siege

but says, “I’ll call us a taxi,” as if he is fine with this.

Zayn gives him a look as the other boys say they’re staying longer, and Harry doesn’t meet his eyes.

 

Louis drapes all over him as they enter the hotel, and he follows Harry into his room instead of going down the corridor, and Harry feels his heart clench. _Go away,_ reverberates in his head. _I love you._

He offers Louis a drink, instead, and turns away when Louis says he’s not thirsty because why else is he here?

There’s a hand running through his hair a moment later and lips pressing to his, and he wants to scream and push him away because _not like this_ , he thinks, he doesn’t want it like this, with Louis drunk and horny and Harry lonely and hurting but-

“You’re gorgeous, Haz,” Louis slurs, and pushes Harry back onto the bed. Harry goes, unwilling but body lax, and thinks, okay, if that’s what Louis wants.

_“Doormat,” Harry was called once by a boy at school. “Fucking pushover.”_

Maybe he is, after all, because he lets Louis kiss his way sloppily down Harry’s body and he removes his shirt when Louis tugs at it and he spreads his legs when Louis pushes them apart. He lies there and wishes he wasn’t falling in love with Louis a little bit more every second, with the way his eyes are wide and his lips pink and chewed, and the way he murmurs rough and low-

“Love you,”

\- and Harry knows he doesn’t mean it, can’t mean it, because he has Eleanor and he had Hannah and he has never wanted Harry, but Harry’s never been logical in the way of love, certainly not when he falls asleep with the press of Louis’ body against him.

 

He wakes up alone, and thinks, okay, that’s expected.

He throws pillow after pillow at the wall anyway, and wants to scream. He feels fucking used and ugly and he _knows_ he’ll never be good enough for more than a one-off lay when it comes to Louis but did he have to make him feel like a whore at the same time?

He cries silently at the foot of the bed afterwards, surrounded by pillows and feeling the burn of his body that won’t stop reminding him how fucking stupid he was, for going along with it, for thinking Louis will magically love him if they sleep together.

Harry wonders then if they even did sleep together, or if Louis snuck off as soon as Harry closed his eyes. He doesn’t know which version he prefers.

 

Zayn tries to talk to him when they’re alone that day, when Louis spends the time looking at everything but him, but jokes around as if nothing is abnormal and he hadn’t just trampled all over Harry’s heart when he fucked his body the night before.

“Alright?” Zayn asks, and Harry wants to be brave, wishes he could answer, do I look alright?, but he just twists his lips into a smile

and says, “Why wouldn’t I be?”, and is reminded of the fact he read so many days ago now, that the universe hasn’t grown since its formation, and he thinks, how much has been lost then?

Because Harry is lost now, and he doesn’t know if the Universe is big enough to hide in.

Zayn looks at him seriously, sadly, and says, “You and Louis didn’t do anything when you got back to the hotel?”

Harry hides a wince behind a grin, shakes his head and replies, “It’s just sex, Zayn, don’t be a prude.”

 

Zayn doesn’t believe him. Neither does Lou.

He kind of wishes Louis doesn’t believe the lies either.

 

“Have a good night last night?” Louis questions him a week later with a smirk on his face, and Harry wants to yell that he’s not a whore or slut or player as the papers call him, and that he and Cara are friends and nothing more, will never be more because Cara likes her freedom and Harry wants the one person in the world he can never ever have.

Harry grins, though, scratches idly at his _I can’t change_ tattoo, and says, “Don’t know what you mean,” as if he wasn’t wishing Louis would look at his wrist and think, _oh_ , because Harry had told him a secret the night before that tattoo, one he will never repeat in the light of day.

But Louis was drunk and cheerful, and Harry’s confession had gone unnoticed – _Harry_ had gone unnoticed. Not all of his tattoos mean something, but this one? This one does.

 

 

Harry likes to run, and he flees back to Holmes Chapel and his mum the next time they have a series of days off, and he hides from the world in his bedroom and the lounge and curls up with old favourite films. He pretends to everyone that he is fine when really he has left a part of him back in London – but it is a part of him he will never get back, and he knows he has to learn to live without it.

People lose limbs all the time and survive. They get prosthetics, learn to live with the replacement, and move on.

 

Grimmy finds out next, and is perhaps the best one of all. He doesn’t look at Harry with pity or treat him as if he’s broken or just tell him he’s being silly and should grow up.

He says, “Louis’ a twat,” and it’s such a _relief_ to have someone on his side and no one else’s, and to know that Nick will hate Louis for more than this, has done and will do, and will not push Harry into talking about it but will offer solutions-

\- and that’s how they end up fucking on Nick’s sofa.

Harry doesn’t regret a thing, and he can say to Zayn with honesty this time that it’s, “just sex.”

 

He sleeps with Louis again, can’t man up enough to tell the drunk child no, can’t push him away because Louis still owns a fragment of him, is still tied up with Harry on an atomic level and Harry loves him with all he has.

He wakes up alone and sticky and sore and so _fucking angry_ that he goes to find Nick, screams in the flat and has sex with Nick on the floor because a bed reminds him of Louis and this is nothing to do with Louis, nothing at all.

 

He changes the tattoo on his wrist one winter day. It no longer reads: _I can’t change_. It’s an anchor now, a physical reminder of Nick who ties him to the ground when he wants to float off this planet, who hasn’t replaced Louis – will never replace him – but who offers him sex and comfort and platonic love and that’s all Harry needs right now.

Zayn looks at him with dark thoughtful eyes and a worried expression, and Harry laughs it off.

 _I will change_ , he thinks.

But then he remembers that the Universe has never managed to grow past its size and how can he move on if the greatest thing there is can’t manage it?

 

It comes to a head when Louis calls him a womaniser as a joke, and Harry snaps. He’s tired, hasn’t slept, he’s missing Nick who’s visiting his parents and isn’t here to keep Harry company after interviews, and he is so _fucking done_ with Louis Tomlinson. He says the last bit, out loud, and feels his heart pound a mile a minute and he thinks he’s going to throw up because oh _god_ he never meant to confess it.

He runs out of the room and hides in a toilet, holding his wrist where the _I can’t change_ tattoo was and where an anchor is now, and feels his pulse flutter under his skin. He’s alive, the beat is saying, and he’ll stay that way.

He curls his knees up to his chest and wonders how he’s ever going to face Louis or the others again.

Zayn finds him with his eyes wet but not overfilling, and pulls him into a hug. “Alright?” he asks, voice low and soft as if Harry might shatter and Harry for once doesn’t think, doesn’t lie through his gritted teeth.

“No,” he says, and Zayn holds him that much tighter and Harry allows tears to leak down his cheeks.

“Does he know?” Zayn questions quietly, once Harry’s sobs are beginning to die down. Harry thinks, _I don’t know_ and then wonders how the fuck this became his life.

He settles for shaking his head, then nodding, because who the fuck understands what is going through Louis’ head at any one point? He’s bright, and beautiful, and so utterly compelling that falling in love was never Harry’s choice; it was inevitable.

“Maybe you should tell him,” Zayn suggests, and Harry pulls away, terrified at the emotion he’s already let slip, and shakes his head with a watery smile.

“I’ll get over it,” he says, ignoring what Zayn is about to say because he can’t do this, can’t lie to the boy who’s been nothing but lovely, unless he pretends he’s lying to himself

and that’s becoming steadily more easy.

 

Harry has no option but to let Louis in that evening. His guard is down, his eyes stinging from exhaustion and he really just wants to curl up alone in bed and sleep for a million hundred years, until the hole in his heart is healed and the scar faded from time, because right now it is raw.

And Louis is ripping the stitches out one by one.

Louis crowds him against the wall of his hallway, his eyes wide and guileless, and Harry wrings his hands together.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Louis demands, and the order is protective, almost, caring, and Harry finds the walls start crumbling piece by piece and he can’t build them up fast enough – and he has an entire army working on it in his mind, because he can’t afford to let Louis in-

“Please, Haz,” Louis says, his voice concerned, and _oh,_ there goes the parapet.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Harry denies, and it’s weak, oh so weak, and the moat is draining out from an invisible plug hole with a whirl of water that sounds like-

“Don’t lie, Haz, please,”

\- Louis’ voice, and down it goes, leaving barren ground beneath and floundering fish like-

“I’m not,”

\- Harry’s explanation, and Louis lets him go, then.

“I’m worried,” Louis tells him, backing away with frustration intertwined with concern.

And Harry’s angry now, because what right does Louis have to say these things? Louis, who fucked him and left him, who made him feel worthless and used, like a sex object and nothing more. Louis, who laughs the loudest and loves the easiest, but can’t find it in his heart to love Harry. Louis, who has toyed with him for years and years and Harry has _had it_ , absolutely had it with Louis fucking Tomlinson.

“Fuck off,” Harry says loudly, his hands coming up to cover his ears and he sinks to the floor. He doesn’t know if he’s speaking to his mind or to Louis or if it even really matters anymore. He wants to run, needs to, but this is his flat and he has nowhere else to go-

“What? Haz?”

“No,” Harry says, quieter. “No, as if you don’t know what the fucking problem is, Louis.”

Louis looks confused, heartbreakingly so, but Harry is furious and upset and so fucking done with it all.

“I _don’t_ ,” Louis stresses, his voice turning soft. “Because you won’t tell me, Haz.”

Harry laughs, and it is bitter and ugly and he hates himself for it, for being dramatic and emotional and for letting the gates of the castle open, and the crowds are flooding out now and the soldiers are piling in, and the stone is falling, falling-

“I’m in fucking love with you,” he says, his voice choked and inhuman and so unlike him that he laughs again, covering his face with his hands and hearing _fool, fool, fool_ in his head. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

There’s silence.

Harry sobs on the floor.

 

And then there are hands around his body, pulling him into Louis’ chest and the boy is tight lipped, angry maybe, and Harry tries to break away but Louis won’t let him. He’s warm and soft and it’s so familiar that Harry can’t do anything but sit and cry.

“Shush,” Louis is saying, over and over again. “Harry, you’re alright.”

Nothing about this is alright.

 

Louis pulls him up after a while, leading him into the kitchen and Harry is numb, tired, wrung dry from emotion and feeling so fucking fragile. Harry sits down and cradles the tea Louis makes, avoiding his eyes and wishing he could be anywhere but here, where he has to hear Louis’ kind but devastating speech that is surely bound to come-

“I didn’t know,” Louis says eventually, interrupting Harry’s monologue. His voice is thin and his eyebrows drawn into a frown. He looks tired like Harry. “You didn’t tell me, Harry.”

There’s definite frustration there.

“I’m not a mind reader,” Louis says, quieter.

Harry nods, doesn’t look up, because what does he say to that? He’d been obvious, he thought. Lou knew, and Zayn, and Nick, and he hadn’t told any of them.

“Harry, will you look at me?” Louis demands, and Harry does so, cursing himself for being such a push over.

“What do you want me to say?” Harry asks, because right now he’ll say anything to get things back to the way they were, when Louis was obtuse and Harry’s secret was safe, even if he was spiralling downwards inside.

“I want you to be honest, for once in your life,” Louis cries, and that stings. Harry has always tried to be honest, until recently, and then it was because he _couldn’t_ tell Louis.

“I am,” Harry denies, but his voice is rough.

“Were you honest when you said you wanted me to fuck you?” Louis asks, his eyes piercing.

“I never said that,” Harry says automatically, and then regrets it when Louis turns pale and exhales shakily.

“Did you want to?” Louis forces out, and Harry wants to lie, really does, but Louis wants him to be honest too, and so now he doesn’t know what to answer and he can’t think, can’t process-

His hesitation is enough, and Louis chokes out a small sad laugh. “Fuck, Haz,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Why did you let me- Why did you do it, if you didn’t want to?”

There’s a pause, and Harry can feel his heart racing. “You wanted to,” he answers truthfully, and Louis strides away then, his shoulders heaving tellingly as he faces out the window. Harry looks down at his cup of tea, going cold.

“You love me,” Louis speaks up at last, and Harry nods. “You’re _in_ love with me,” Louis checks, and Harry nods again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry clenches his teeth, wants to say, _because it would hurt too much when you said no_ , or even _because I’m a coward_ , but both are still true and he can’t give voice to those thoughts, can’t validate his fears and so he says-

“You’re with Eleanor,” as if that was the only thing stopping him.

“I _was_ ,” Louis corrects, his voice harsh. “Until about two months ago, which you would know if you weren’t avoiding me.”

Harry wants to deny it, to claim that he would never turn Louis away or run from him, but it wouldn’t be honest, and that’s what Louis wants right now, honesty, so he says-

“I’m sorry,”

And Louis shakes his head.

“I don’t get you,” he says, spinning to look at Harry again. “How am I supposed to answer if you don’t ask?”

Harry stares at him, thinks _that was exactly the point_ , and maybe Louis reads his mind because he sighs.

“How long?” he asks. “How long have you been torturing yourself with this?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t wish to say _since I met you_ , but anything else would be a lie.

He shrugs.

Louis walks towards him and Harry watches anxiously. Louis leans down, catches Harry’s lips gently with his own, and says,

“You’re an idiot,” with a voice that is an even split between fond and frustrated, and Harry doesn’t know where to go with this. He wants to ask what that meant, whether Louis hates him or wants to ignore it or what, but he can’t risk breaking the fantasy of the moment with Louis so close to him.

“Sorry,” he offers, and Louis shakes his head.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Louis says. “Don’t be sorry because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

Harry doesn’t know any other way to be, though, not when it comes to those he loves.

“What do you want?” Louis asks quietly, and Harry answers before he can even think about it-

“You.”

Louis kisses him again, firmer this time, and stretches out a hand to cradle Harry’s face.

“You have me,” he tells Harry. “You should have said something earlier.”

“So should you,” Harry retorts, before freezing, because Louis hasn’t actually said anything about how he feels yet, and maybe it was just a pity kiss and he doesn’t mean anything by it-

But Louis stops and nods, and says, “Fair point,”

And Harry wants to say that Louis still hasn’t said anything firm yet, but he doesn’t dare.

They kiss instead, and fall asleep together on the sofa and it’s all very innocent, and Harry is still very confused and a little sad and angry, too, because Louis hasn’t apologised.

But it’ll do for now.

 

He wakes up to find Louis and Zayn talking in the hall, and he wonders when Zayn got here and why.

“You hurt him,” Zayn is saying quietly, and Harry sits up and listens, curious despite his guilt at eavesdropping.

“I know,” Louis replies.

“Do you?” Zayn asks sharply. “You slept with him and then left before he woke up. Twice. For fuck’s sake, Lou, what were you thinking?”

Harry wants to hear this, wants to know, because the memories still send tendrils of disquiet through him and he remembers the humiliation of being treated like a whore, like he was there for sex and nothing more.

“I was drunk,” Louis defends, and Harry feels shards of anger splinter inside him and he sort of wants to throw something, because Louis broke his fucking heart over and over again, and his only excuse is alcohol?

“Tell me the truth,” Zayn demands, and it’s reminiscent of their conversation yesterday.

“I was,” Louis says. “I was drunk and he was there and I was sort of in love with him. You know what I’m like, Zayn. I have no self-control when drunk, but then I woke up and realised and, like, I thought he’d regret it.”

“So you ran before he could,” Zayn finishes, but there is not forgiveness in that tone, only incredulity. “Coward.”

“Hey,” Louis protests, and Harry starts to slowly move towards the door. “He never confessed either.”

“Because you treated him like a whore, you wanker,” Zayn snaps, and Harry can hear Louis suck in a breath. “He didn’t think you wanted him.”

Zayn can apparently read him a hell of a lot better than Harry gives him credit for, because Harry never told him any of this, but it is spot on.

Harry interrupts then, because listening to them talk about him is awkward and weird.

“Sort of?” he asks quietly, looking at Louis and ignoring Zayn’s quiet presence. Zayn startles, then moves towards him to wrap an arm around his shoulder in comfort. Louis flushes when he realises Harry was there.

Louis asks, “What?”

and Harry says, “Sort of in love?”, his bravery already wavering but he’s fed up with this now, annoyed at he and Louis always skirting the issue and never facing each other with the truth.

Louis pauses, then admits, “Fully,” and Harry bites his lip.

“Fully what?” he challenges, because if he had to say it yesterday then Louis can damn well man up and say it too.

“I am completely in love with you, Harry Styles,” Louis confesses, and Harry gives credit where it’s due; Louis doesn’t back down or act afraid when he decides he wants something.

Harry steps forward, away from Zayn, and says, “I love you too,” his voice quiet and shaking but honest, and there is nothing else he’d rather say right now.

 

Fireworks don’t go off. They don’t kiss and have sex and scar Zayn for life, nor do they hug and cry and break down in the hallway.

It takes time and patience and a lot of arguments before they say those three words again, before they make love instead of fuck, before they come out to their families and the world and they never get better at communicating-

-but they learn, eventually, that, no matter what, they keep coming back to each other, and there is nothing more they need.

 

And Harry thinks that just because the Universe isn’t growing doesn’t mean it isn’t changing, and he takes courage from that, from the fact that billions of atoms are getting recycled every second of every day, but he and Lou still meet, still love, and still stay together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and please do leave a comment! The fact about the Universe is, as far as I understand, true, but I am in no way a physicist.


End file.
